


lead nike shoes

by Lua



Series: on the edge of nobody's empire [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn, s5B canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lua/pseuds/Lua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eichen House burns down.<br/>Peter, Lydia and Stiles find each other.</p><p> </p><p>"Just don't know if I could do it all again" she said, it's true<br/>To Binge - Gorillaz</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

Eichen House burned down and Peter Hale survived fire for the third time in his life. After clawing his way out of ashes and wood that felt all too heavy with its magic, knowing it was only desperation forcing his way through it, Peter just stood there. The reality of the fire itself didn’t seem to register right away.

Eichen House burned down.

It burned and he could smell the repulsive scent of burning flesh because Eichen House was still burning and it would burn and burn and burn until it was gone with its prisoners and its keepers. Peter felt far away from everything, his thoughts didn’t seem to belong to him. He laughed.

Eichen House burned down and Peter didn't.

He just stood on the debris, waiting. Surely, Peter wouldn’t be allowed this freedom. Surely, the fire would bring someone, a new jailer, a new killer. With wolfsbane pulsing through his veins, he considered how far he would be able to get and how much he would be blamed for, nonsensical as it would be to do so.

Peter closed his eyes and wished for fresh air. He couldn’t tell how long he just stood there.

"Of course you would be the one to walk away from this," it was all Stiles said to him as his eyes followed down Peter's body.

His arrival surprised Peter, Stiles could see it in how he stiffened just as clearly as he could see the burns, the ugly charred wounds, oozing something that wasn't quite blood but was still pink with it. He noticed Peter didn't seem to care, didn't seem to notice them. Peter didn’t seem to notice too much and that in itself was suspicious.

Stiles expected Peter to lash out at him for being put in that place simply because Stiles was the only person available to take Peter’s anger. He expected Peter to growl and yell and physically lash out with everything he still got for being forgotten, for being punished, for something! He didn’t expect Peter to stay there as if he knew better. He didn’t expect Peter to know better.

"Beacon Hills was meant to burn," Stiles added, uncomfortable with the silence when nothing happened. "Is Lydia dead?"

Stiles stepped back as soon as Peter moved, despite the distance between them. Despite the knowledge he couldn’t outrun a werewolf. It didn't matter Peter was wounded. It didn't matter Peter was moving in the sluggish manner Stiles learned to recognize as wolfsbane poisoning. It didn't matter because Stiles also learned to be prepared. He wondered if Peter even knew Lydia had also been trapped there.

"Lydia?" came the reply and he wouldn't have believed it was Peter talking to him had he not be standing as close as he was. The seductive velvety way of speaking had been touched by a roughness Stiles was sure came from screaming but at the same time it trembled as if Peter hadn't stringed coherent words together out loud in quite some time. All Stiles did was wave a hand to indicate the debris and the remaining parts of the building still burning.

He had come all the way here for Lydia, the last person still alive he thought he cared about. It was a shocking revelation to find no emotion attached to the thought Lydia could be dead. Stiles didn’t know where Lydia was but everything waved in this direction and if Eichen House burned, maybe so did she. He wasn't sure what was keeping him here anymore. Maybe it was the surprise of finding Peter standing there, having survived fire yet again, and he should go away. Leave this place behind, leave Peter behind, but what if she was still alive…

Peter watched Stiles, still waiting. He thought he had always been good at that but in Eichen House he truly learned to wait. There was nothing to wait for so Peter learned to simply wait without a goal because he couldn't bring himself to wait for death to come. He surely didn't expect freedom and when freedom came he didn't expect to survive it. Why was Stiles here at all? He watched as Stiles cocked his head, looking over the debris with a distant sort of calmness.

Very slowly, with carefully controlled movements learned to not upset a frail sense of balance that came with wolfsbane poisoning, Peter's eyes fixed on the burning building. Lydia. Stiles came for Lydia but Lydia was either dead or trapped to burn. Wouldn’t she be dead by now anyway? There was anger rising at the thought and a deep fear that came from experience.

Peter bared his teeth on instinct. Lydia Martin hadn't been just beautiful, hadn’t been just smart and hadn’t been just a rare supernatural being. Lydia had been his anchor in what felt like a lifetime from now. It was in the past now; he tried to tell himself. Eichen House burned and Peter didn't. He wanted Lydia alive. He wanted Lydia to not burn.

Stiles noticed as Peter started moving, growling more human than werewolf. If Peter felt compelled to throw himself into the flames and die screaming a third time just so he could play hero when it didn’t matter anymore, Stiles wouldn’t lose sleep over it. He would easily trade Peter's life for Lydia's but he would also trade Lydia's for his father's.

"Scott is dead," he told Peter in a quiet voice. It felt bitter. "Scott and my father, they died." It felt cold. Stiles felt numb. So what if Eichen House was no more? What if Beacon Hills burned? The world could burn and Stiles would watch, sure of not caring. There were only vague resemblances of emotion under the surface now and they felt wrong. It all felt absurd and such a joke! What was Peter even playing at? Such a funny joke! Haha, what a funny guy; Peter Hale the last hero of Beacon Hills! It felt infuriating.

"Scott! My dad! Derek, Malia, Liam. They are all fucking gone! " he yelled and for all that the words were said with anger, they sounded eerily detached, Stiles standing unnaturally still. "Everyone you know, everyone you cared about, gone! Again!"

Peter felt the words like a punch and the pained howl he let out was just an instinct he thought to be lost between the walls of Eichen House. He wanted to be strong enough to lash out. He wanted to not stare at the building and realize for the first time that night the full reality of the fire.

The smell.

The heat.

The pain.

The panic.

The loss.

The werewolf tried to keep himself from shaking and when the scream came, it came as a distraction more than the relief it could've been.

The scream itself came from the woods, somewhere on the other side of the road where there wasn’t any fire. Stiles turned around, moving his whole body and giving Peter his back, as if Peter offered no danger. Peter couldn’t help but notice the restrained movements, the distance Stiles was keeping from his own emotions. He wondered if this was Stiles expressing trauma - and he was sure there was some extend of trauma if what the boy told him was true - or if this was something else. Something powerful and fearsome. Something like Lydia.

Peter was moving before he couldn’t stop himself and that fact alone seemed to spark Stiles’ curiosity. If Stiles followed Peter’s movements through the corner of his eyes, the werewolf wouldn’t comment on it now. He expected the distrust far more than he expected to be allowed his freedom.

The night seemed colder after Lydia screamed and it felt as if death itself would come for them. “Come on, baby, don’t fear the reaper,” Stiles sniggered, following Peter into the woods. He felt it as a small victory in a battle he didn't know he had set out to have when Peter rolled his eyes. Peter wouldn't be one to welcome the reaper if his history could be trusted. Stiles wondered if the werewolf was too scared to bite back. Was it the fire? Was it Eichen House ghosting its way into Peter? But suddenly it didn't matter because Lydia was there, waist deep in water, staring at something only she could see. It had Stiles pushing past Peter, pushing him back with more strength than originally intended, so he could run to Lydia as if Lydia herself didn't look frightening and terrible.

Confusion washed over Peter as he stumbled back and Lydia's eyes focused on them. There was a cold anger in them that seemed capable of crushing his bones. It seemed to take a moment before it was gone and the world aligned itself and made sense again. Lydia ignored Stiles attempt on grabbing her arm to pull her out of the water. It wasn’t needed. It wasn’t comforting.

"Well," she said, voice matching the shaking of her body as she moved out of the cold muddy water on her own. Although she wouldn't say a word of that sort now, the memory creeped back on her mind, unwelcomed, and Lydia considered asking for Stiles' jacket as she did so long ago. Had it been that long? It didn’t matter. It felt like death for some reason, to bring back that particular situation, and Lydia spared a moment to look at Stiles, looking for signs of grieving.

"No one told you staring is rude?" Her eyes darted to Peter and it took her a moment to realize the convoluted way of speaking, the shaky posture and maybe even the wounds were a result of Peter's imprisonment. Another time, it would have made Lydia, straighten her back and stand taller, willing the shaking under control. As it was, she let herself stare and take in what she could. Lydia had learned to welcome the whispers.

“Lydia,” Stiles called from her side and she wondered if it had been too long.

“It feels like a battlefield…” Lydia looked up, above the treetops. It would be better to pull back, at least for now. She didn’t want to go where these voices would take her, not now. “War, suffering and death.”

“They are still dying,” Peter concluded after seconds of silence.

The three of them stood there for a moment, watching the smoke the wind was bringing from Eichen House. There were no sirens.

“It’s a silent night,” Stiles added and Peter watched him more carefully. Peter wanted to ask Stiles what happened in Beacon Hills.

“I’d like to go someplace else for now,” Lydia said softly, taking faltering steps towards the direction they came from. She glanced at them just once but she was sure they would follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song stiles quotes at peter is (don't fear) the reaper by blue oyster cult
> 
> the title of this fic comes from the song 19-2000 by gorillaz and the series title comes from nobody's empire by belle and sebastian.
> 
>  
> 
> thank you for reading!!


	2. ii

Peter watched his own hand, eyes following the wounds that were healing so slowly he could say they weren’t healing at all. It took him actual effort to connect the pain he felt with these wounds, with the charred bits of skin, with the liquid still oozing from them, with almost burning to death for a third time. It was worrisome how much effort it took him when he was already aware he was in pain.

It was worrisome how disconnected he felt from the world around him.

Peter felt like he was watching the world through the eyes of someone else. It felt like the sounds couldn’t reach him and his thoughts demanded an effort that made them no longer worthy of being understood. It felt like he couldn’t breathe. It felt like drowning and something cold touched his arm, something that startled him out of the despair of drowning without water. The bubble seemed to shatter.

Very slowly, Peter turned his head, eyes following up his arm so he could watch the pale hand covering his wounds and he wondered how he survived. The house burned; he was meant to be dead. Peter took a deep breath and the air smelled like death and pain and ashes. His pack was gone.

“Peter,” Lydia said quietly, a warning before she pressed her fingers on his arm. It grounded him; if it was the pain or Lydia herself, Peter couldn’t tell. Eichen House burned, Peter didn’t. Peter survived. His house had been gone for years now. He was done mourning his pack.

Peter made an effort to look around and found himself surprised by the car. So Stiles drove there. He hadn’t heard the car approaching earlier, hadn’t questioned the broken line of mountain ash until now. He glanced at Lydia but, despite her hand on his arm and her fingernails scrapping over a wound that felt too hot whenever he thought about it, her eyes were lost in the burned building.

Lydia felt the cold of the night clinging to her skin. She needed to know what had happened but she wasn’t ready for it. This was not the time. This was not the place. She couldn’t remember walking away from Eichen House, she had lost days-weeks-months in there. She needed to remember but, for now, Lydia needed dry clothes and an hour or so to ground herself back into reality. Assuming this was reality.

Lydia forced herself to let go of Peter.

In the brief seconds of Peter's hesitation as they followed Stiles to the car parked not too far from the gates of Eichen House, she couldn't help but watch the vehicle a little closely. She couldn't feel anything as she did so, she didn't hear anything, and it was blissful. Lydia wanted to get away from this place. The silence felt like hope.

Stiles didn't say a word but Lydia could see in the way his lips thinned up that he disapproved of the idea of taking Peter along. Lydia didn't care, she had learned compassion.

As they drove away from Beacon Hills, Lydia stared out of the window. Peter was sitting on her side, both of them in the backseat of a car that wasn't Stiles'. He offered no explanation and Lydia didn't want to think about it; didn’t want to ask about it. The silence was soothing. There had been no discussion or hesitation before Stiles decided to take them in that direction; no questions from him, no arguing from them. She looked at Stiles. He seemed focused on driving but she was aware he knew something they didn't, something he wasn’t telling them yet.

Peter realized they were moving away from Beacon Hills but the road leading outside town was completely empty. It looked as if they were the last alive souls in the world. Peter leaned back on his seat and closed his eyes, equal parts grateful and afraid. There was too much unaccounted for and he didn't feel in shape to demand-trade-steal-coerce-beg for information. The silence was terrifying.

Stiles was sitting with his back straight, hands steadily positioned on the wheel. If he occasionally glanced at the back seat where Lydia and Peter seemed all too cozy, who would blame him. Did she forget Peter bit her and left her to bleed? Did she forget he was dangerous and shouldn’t be taken for anything less? "I don't trust you," he informed Peter and Lydia rolled her eyes but didn't bother to look at any of them. Peter didn't answer. The silence was annoying. "You are not fooling anyone but if you so much try something, I’ll…”

“Stiles,” Lydia interrupted and he cocked his head to look at her and to make eye contact through the rear view mirror. He tapped his fingers on the wheel, waiting for her to continue but she didn’t say anything else. Instead, she arched her eyebrows and stared back at him through the mirror in a silent warning.

Stiles stretched his neck from one side to the other as if it were stiff and focused back on the road.

“All of us,” Lydia said after they passed a road sign for a motel not too far away. “We need to talk.”

Stiles kept his eyes on Peter through the rear view mirror for a few seconds after doing so; the werewolf looked asleep. Did they? Even if Stiles wanted Lydia alive, it didn’t mean he wanted to tell her anything he knew. Not right now. And Peter? He sighed and pulled over at the next exit. Even if they were about to go separate ways, a truce would be better. The idea of being alone irked him and the feeling showed in his face. Peter’s eyes shot open and Stiles drew in a hissed breath, glancing from the road to the mirror.

Peter reached out for the passenger’s seat, claws already out. He couldn’t breathe, the smell of burned flesh was too strong. Peter knew he was too weak in his current state; he had no pack, he wasn’t healing, he had nothing left. They would kill him. He was weak. Too weak.

“Stiles! Stop the car,” her voice sounded urgent despite the lack of fear.

It was an unnecessary command as Stiles had already slammed the brakes, stopping the car in the middle of the deserted highway.

“Get Fangface out of the car,” Stiles snapped back at her.

It was just as pointless to say that since Peter was out of the car as soon as it stopped.

Peter could barely breath. His fingers kept flexing, making his claws touch the palms of his hands. He was an omega; his pack was gone. The fire. Hunters. His body ached with wolfsbane and he was weak, alone, and everybody knows the lone wolf doesn’t survive on their own. There was a fire. Peter could hear someone calling his name, he could feel his fangs elongating in preparation for the instinctive growl.

Keep them away.

Make them think there is strength behind the threat.

It was pain that stopped Peter as someone grabbed him by the arms, paying no mind to the burns covering his skin. He wanted to lashed out, he wanted to claw himself free even as his eyes focused on Stiles. Was Peter too weak or did Stiles get stronger?

“Breathe,” Lydia commanded from somewhere to the side.

Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Stiles didn’t let go.

Lydia touched the werewolf’s hand, easing his claws away from his palm. The minutes passed slowly as they counted breathing in and out and in and out and in out and in again.

Stiles stepped back and Peter seemed to deflated at the loss of physical contact.

“We should go,” Stiles stated and there was no room for doubt. This wasn’t safe. This would attract attention. He could remember being in the same situation as Peter, panicking. He could remember a kiss. Stiles looked at Lydia; would she have kissed Peter too if he wasn’t there? He would’ve kissed Lydia, not that he felt particularly motivated at the moment but he didn’t feel particularly motivated about anything other than getting the hell away from this doomed town.

Would he have kissed Peter?

Stiles rolled his eyes; it was not the time. “We have to go now,” he insisted and they followed him back into the car. The silence was uncomfortable.

"We have to talk,” Lydia said once more when Stiles parked the car at the motel. "One room, get us the keys.”

Peter made a sound that could, with some effort, pass for a laugh. A desperate attempt, but Stiles had to agree. It was not like the girl who looked like she almost drowned or the man who almost burned could waltz in there and easily ask for the keys to a room. Stiles snorted a laugh, Jason and Freddy. They couldn’t even change their clothes as it was which meant Lydia, at least, was likely to borrow something he's got in the car. This impromptu trip felt like a terrible idea now. No planning, no safety, no back up plan. What if they were ambushed, what if someone else survived, what if someone hunted Stiles down and…

“Stiles,” Lydia’s voice cut through his thoughts, through his raising panic. “I refuse to freeze to death in the backseat of your borrowed car.”

She wanted a warm shower and information. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to know she would be safe for the next few hours. She would settle for the warm shower.

"I didn't plan it," Peter admitted, a few seconds after Stiles left to get the keys.

"I don't care," and she really didn't. It was not the time.

Peter got out of the car, inspecting the place. He tried to listen closely, listen to heartbeats. It was oddly difficult and the difficulty felt alien to him. He focused on Lydia's and then on Stiles'. All he could smell was burned flesh and ashes and desperation. It took the werewolf a moment to distinguish the scent coming from himself.

“I couldn’t feel anything this time,” he confessed in a small voice. It didn’t matter if no one heard him but Lydia did and arched an eyebrow at him.

“The fire,” she assumed.

Peter let out a defeated sigh.

“I…the first time, I felt it,” his throat was starting to ache from the effort of speaking; “The death of my pack.”

Stiles shook the keys to get their attention before unlocking the door and stepping in, checking the room. It was not too bad; two beds, no bugs, no weird stains.

Lydia came in and walked straight into the bathroom.

Peter hesitated by the door before Stiles gave him a nod.

“Lock it,” Stiles told the werewolf. He checked the tv and it didn’t work; it didn’t bother him. “You can have the next shower.”

Peter tensed up.

Stiles found it curious how vulnerable Peter seemed to be. Scared. Traumatized. He wondered what happened in Eichen House to bring this reaction out of him so easily and, a second later, he had to question if this wasn’t just an act. Peter was guarded, Peter planned. How could Stiles trust Peter now? Should he? He narrowed his eyes at the werewolf.

“Was it true?” Peter interrupted his thoughts and Stiles just nodded. He wished they weren’t dead. He wished he hadn’t been naïve enough to work with people who let him down once, to work with people who hurt those he cared about. Fuck the greater good. The town could be damned, if his father is dead.

“They all died and I survived. It’s all very sad, you can offer your condolences and hugs but I’m already hugged out,” Stiles dropped himself on the only chair in the room.

Lydia marched back into the room, body wrapped into a thin towel that seemed to be the only option. She held Stiles’ gaze for a moment before sitting down in one of the bed, crossing her legs and keeping her chin tilted slightly up. Stiles had the impression Lydia would be able to power through hell and pretend it was pleasant if she wished to do so. It amused him in a muted way to think she could be doing it right then and there.

“I don’t think any of us should be alone.”

Of all the supernatural beings to exist, Lydia had hoped for ghosts. When Allison died, Lydia hoped and she waited and, for some time, she refused to feel the loss of her friend. Time passed, research was done, Lydia learned people just die. The refusal to let someone else step in the place that was once her friend’s; that kind of isolation did nothing to soothe the pain. She knew both of them had already learned it, she had no doubts they didn’t want to mourn alone.

It was rather easy to understand, they all carried the same fear now.

Lydia got up.

"I don't care if you two will get at each other's throats. I do not think any of us is sane enough to be alone,” she stated on her way back to the bathroom. “We need to talk.”

"What happened in Beacon Hills?" Peter asked quietly.

"You happened to Beacon Hills,” Stiles replied, giving Peter a cocky look that dared him to be just as childish.

“Don’t be a brat,” Lydia said, using one of the thin one-day-they-were-white towels of this place to dry her hair. “I’m calling a truce.”

Stiles was surprised when she dropped one of the towels on the floor, keeping the other one firmly wrapped around her body and climbed into one of the beds. A show of trust. Really? He wanted to laugh but he didn’t. Stiles also didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t feel tired. If he was honest, he wasn’t sure he felt anything at all other than the occasional burst of anger. Suspicion. Stiles snorted. All too easy to ignore his suspicions; wasn’t he too paranoid to be taken seriously? But who was right about it all? Didn’t he call them evil? Untrustworthy? And now they were as dead as they could be and Stiles was right and being right annoyed him.

He glanced at the unoccupied bed and then at the werewolf still standing near the door.

“What happened in Eichen House?”

Peter stared at him, silent, and Stiles regretted the question.

“You can have that bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fangface is the name of the main character of a 70's werewolf cartoon.
> 
> the jason and freddy reference is there because freddy was burned alive and jason drowned/almost drowned (as Time_Lady_of_Unsinkable_Ships pointed out).
> 
> thanks for reading it!


	3. iii

It was the smell that woke her up. The foul scent of burnt flesh and sickness.

Lydia stayed there, lying in bed and staring at the odd stain in the ceiling as she wondered how long she slept.

The room was quiet.

She noticed someone had dropped a ridiculously thin blanket on top of her during the night and she wondered if that could be considered some sort of progress; a sign of caring, a peace offering. Lydia had learned compassion but she didn’t forget; Peter did horrible things. Peter did horrible things to her and she didn’t care if he had good reasons. It was unfair. It had been maddening. Stiles and Peter could be dangerous. An ancient fox spirit had done horrible things to her while wearing Stiles' face and she couldn’t allow herself to care it wasn’t him. In the end, it felt, and it was, as if both of them had done sickening-awful-terrible-traumatic things to her.

She wasn’t stupid, she could see the reasoning, she could understand Stiles wasn’t even himself when he did those things. It was still his face that haunted her mind along with Peter’s burnt face. Their whispers in her ear, their lips so close to her skin. Lydia could reason it away, she could forgive and pretend it didn’t affect her. She could pretend she was better than this, stronger than all the people who got inside her mind, all the people who took control away from her. She was good at pretending.

Lydia rolled to her side and ended up facing Peter. It seemed the werewolf had spent the night between the two single beds; ‘On guard duty’, her brain supplied.

“Stiles left,” Peter said without opening his eyes and Lydia wondered if he slept at all. “I woke up and he was gone.”

Lydia hummed in acknowledgment. She didn’t know what to make of all this yet. Peter seemed worried. Had Stiles run away from them? Was he scared? It seemed like they were all afraid of something. Being locked up again, lost inside their heads, dead after losing everything. Worse than dead. Solitary confinement inside their own minds. Was it fear alone moving all of them? Perhaps Peter was afraid Stiles would bring someone to drag him back to Eichen House. Nonsense; an unlikely scenario but a rather understandable concern. What was Stiles playing?

Lydia went back to staring at the ceiling. She wondered if Stiles wasn’t doing the same thing Peter seemed to consider a necessity right now; watching, being on high alert, guarding… They would have to wait to find out.

“You need a shower,” she informed Peter.

Peter shivered, clearly uncomfortable. It wasn’t the idea of showering that had the werewolf tensing up. He was filthy and the idea of getting cleaned up was heavenly. Peter sighed, eyes still closed. It felt like repeating history and that impression scared him. Blood in the water, an offering, a payment, something dangerous… He couldn’t do it without knowing it was safe. It was the water; he was sure of it. He thought about cleaning his wounds, cleaning the blood away from healing wounds and letting the water wash it away; he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t help but wonder what happened right after the fire. The first one.

Peter snorted a laugh.

The idea someone could survive being burnt three times seemed absurd. He should be dead. Was this punishment? Was it magic? He should have died. And he didn’t and he wouldn’t. He refused to let himself die in the flames. He would not be trapped and burned again. But he had been.

Again and again and again.

The fear, the smell, the pain, the wounds, the lack of pack; he was alone. He needed to be safe. It was Talia’s fault; she didn’t protect them. It was Scott’s fault; he didn’t protect them. It was Talia and Laura and Derek and Scott and he was an omega now. It hurt. It twisted something inside of him in a painful way. It was grief; it was fear; it was anger.

He took a deep breath. He was trying to leash his panic again; he had mastered this once but, then, all it took was dying.

“Lydia,” Peter said so softly it could pass as a murmur. “I…need to find a pack.”

Lydia stayed silent for a moment. Surely, he didn’t want to find a pack right away. Surely, Peter knew it was a terrible idea to replace something precious that was lost with something that looked vaguely the same. Surely, he knew he would grow bitter and regret it and want to walk away.

She couldn't get used to the roughness in Peter's voice; it didn’t feel right.

“As a beta?” she asked. Peter nodded and it surprised her.

She refused to forget. Peter was a predator. Peter was dangerous, selfish.

“Why not start a new pack as an alpha?”

Peter sighed.

"I don't regret it," he confessed. "You wouldn’t understand."

Lydia kept watching the ceiling. It was rather easy to understand; they all carried the similar fears now. Lydia knew better than to let Peter control this situation. Nothing felt right.

"Forgiveness; that's what you are looking for," she stated her conclusion and Peter scoffed.

"Don't you think I'm past the point of forgiveness, Lydia, dear?"

With a small frown, Peter cocked his head, paying attention in a way they all had learn to recognize as a werewolf hearing something they couldn’t hear too.

“Stiles?” she asked. Peter nodded but it was irrelevant as a few seconds later the door opened and Stiles walked in.

Stiles hadn’t been able to sleep. It had been unexpected to watch Lydia easily fall asleep in a room with a predator. Or two. That thought alone, that guilt, had made it pointless to keep trying to sleep too and so, he had decided to speed things up. None of them had clothes but him. None of them had money on them but him. They would want to go back to Beacon Hills. No, they would have needed to go back but Stiles could fix it. He did fix it. He had planned, he decided to get away as soon as he woke up in Beacon Hills and realized he was the only one still alive. He took the money, a bag of clothes and the first car with keys he could find. He wouldn’t live in a ghost town. He wouldn't stay and die. He needed to get away, he needed to go right that moment.

Now he couldn’t sleep.

He knew what they would think, he was already expecting their judgement. And it was uncomfortable to open the door and find both of them awake, watching him with eyes full of suspicion.

“Do you know it stinks in here?” he asked, closing the door before setting the bags on the chair. It took some driving to find a place open early in the morning but, in the end, Stiles had a couple bags of temporary clothes he was sure both Lydia and Peter would hate. He also had breakfast which he was sure would be much more appreciated than the clothes. “I got breakfast but if the dying dog smell is going to be a thing, I’d rather let you starve while I sit outside and eat delicious breakfast burritos on my own.”

Lydia rolled her eyes.

“Come on, I got you clothes. Nice new clothes. Yeah, maybe not nice but clean ones,” Stiles added and laughed when two sets of judgmental eyes gave the bags a doubtful look. “Clean, dry clothes that doesn’t smell like death.”

It seemed to be enough for Lydia since she sat up in bed, secured the towel around her body, and held a hand out in a clear demand for one of the bags. Stiles passed it to her and she got up to   disappear into the bathroom right after that. Peter gave Stiles a puzzled look as soon as Lydia was gone; it was amusing.

“Thought I ran away during the night, didn’t you?” Stiles threw himself on the bed Lydia had been sleeping in. “It was a reasonable assumption. Did you sleep at all, Bigby Wolf?”

Peter narrowed his eyes at Stiles. All this chatter and the nicknames; they seemed forced. The constant movement felt illusory. Peter wasn’t sure if this was Stiles’ way of coping, trying to keep the appearance of normalcy, or if this was a distraction. It was dangerous.

"I think you are scared of what we could do to you," Stiles went on, only sparing a glance to the bathroom door. He made such a remark as if it was the most natural thing to say and Peter watched him carefully. Was it a threat? "Unaccounted power would never sit well with someone like you."

Peter didn't correct him.

Lydia was clearly powerful. It was expected of a banshee, it was expected of Lydia, and Peter had read as much as he could on her powers. Stiles was a mystery. Lydia was coming into her powers, growing into them and becoming terrifying. Stiles had learned something, he had become more confident in his own strength and Peter wondered what sort of power was to be found behind that. He had no idea what was done to Lydia in Eichen House and he had no idea what secrets Stiles had kept and that he no longer cared to hide. It was worrisome.

"That is Malia's car out there, isn't it?" he asked, an obvious diversion. It was still enough for Stiles to narrow his eyes. Why would Peter even know that? How would Peter even know what Malia was driving when he had been safely locked away in Eichen House. He had hoped the scent would be gone by the time Peter was able to smell it again. "Are you doing it, this, out of guilt?"

Stiles thinned his lips, unable to stop the twitch of anger that showed on his face.

"Do you blame yourself, Stiles?"

He did but he wanted to bite back, blame Peter, tell him it was all his fault for biting Scott, for sleeping with an assassin, for allowing his alpha to steal his memories. He wanted to yell and hit him and demand Peter never spoke of them again, of precious people in Stiles' lives that were no more.

People who would never come back.

He wanted to hit him. He wanted to make Peter sorry for everything he ever did wrong.

Lydia came out of the bathroom dressed in black pyjama pants and a soft stripped sweater, holding a towel dripping with water and interrupting the show of anger that could have been. She looked displeased and Stiles couldn’t tell if it was the towel, the clothes or both. She sat on the unoccupied bed and dropped the towel on Peter’s knees before catching his wrist to inspect the burns on his arms.

“They are healing slowly,” she commented. “Clean up the blood and get in the shower.”

Peter looked amused. He also looked exhausted. Stiles refused to worry.

“Chop chop,” Stiles urged him. “Only neat people get gas station breakfast around here.”

Peter rolled his eyes. It seemed intense enough to make him move his head, ending up by facing the bed Lydia was now occupying. It was such a trivial thing, something so characteristically Peter, that Lydia couldn’t help but smile. It was a tiny smile, barely a curl of her lips, but it was there and it felt like hope. A promise that things could be normal again.

She watched as Stiles flopped on the other bed, over the thin blanket, while Peter moved into the bathroom. Lydia waited a minute before she breathed out slowly.

“How did you survive,” she asked but her question sounded like a statement.

An accusation.

Stiles couldn’t help the annoyance that showed in his face. Losing his father, losing Scott, losing everyone had been difficult. He didn’t need judgment for surviving. He didn’t run and hide. He didn’t wait until the danger was gone. He was there, too. He should've died too.

“I don’t know,” he admitted bitterly. It was the truth; he didn’t know how he survived. He had suspicions-theories-concerns but he didn't know. He woke up and the world was burning. It was chaos. He had never felt more alive. “I was dead and then I wasn’t.”

He suspected…no, he believed their deaths brought him from the verge of his own death. All that pain, all that chaos, it had given him strength. He didn't know if it had always been in him or if it was an aftereffect of sharing his body with a spirit that fed on it. It scared Stiles and muted the noise inside his head even more than the grief had been doing. Was Stiles still himself?

He held Lydia’s gaze, defiant. After a few seconds, she shrugged, tilting her head slightly to the side, pressing her lips together in such a way there was a tiny pout.

“You could’ve bought a hair brush,” she declared.

Stiles sniggered and Lydia’s eyes found him again, arching her eyebrows. It made him happy Lydia was alive and, mostly, still herself.

“Well,” he continued, stretching on the bed. “Your boyfriend went Pyro on us; it got a tiny bit out of hand when he set fire to pretty much everywhere before disappearing into the Nemeton. Real fun, let’s not do that again.” It was clear on his face that just talking about this was enough to enrage Stiles. “In the end, it got a little too chaotic to think about toiletries.”

“Excuse you,” Lydia scoffed and it was clear she would say something else but the noise of the shower distracted Stiles. He couldn't help but wonder how much Peter had been listening to their conversation. Was it enough for the werewolf to figure out what happened to Stiles? Did he know? Did he plan to use it?

Lydia sighed.

She didn't want to feel disconnected from everything again, she needed to know what happened, what Stiles seemed to be running from. Lydia hated to be isolated.

For her own good.

For lack of time.

For someone else's plan.

Lydia hated to be used, hated to be made a damsel to be rescued. She was strong and she knew her own strength now. She survived. She got over things and she pretended to get over things and she survived. She despised being locked away in Eichen House. She could still feel the bitterness of being taken by the Nogitsune wearing Stiles' face. She would never forget the isolation and confusion from when Peter was only alive inside her head. She could forgive and she could pretend she was better than holding grudges in a world where allies were scarce. She would not forget. She would not give up control. She was scared, she didn't know what happened. Stiles didn't want to talk about it. Peter knew even less and he was clearly struggling. She couldn't bear the thought of going back to Beacon Hills on her own. She took a deep breath; she needed to know more.

"Is my mother dead?" Lydia asked. The banshee was fairly sure she could figure it out on her own no, if she needed to, but Lydia was smart enough to understand she would be biased. Even if her mother had sent her to that horrible place, Lydia knew her well enough to understand it wasn’t out of malice. She wondered if denial would come easily to her or if she would find clues that weren't even there to be found.

Stiles nodded.

Lydia didn't feel the grief she expected. She wondered if she had become too accustomed to death. She wondered if she was just having issues to think of it as real, to feel the loss.

“None of us is in a good place right now. We could keep each other above the surface, use each other…”

Peter reappeared from the bathroom after what felt to him as an unreasonably long time. In reality, he knew it hadn't been that long. He could smell the cheap soap on his skin mixed with the unmistakable scent of his own anxiety. He took a few seconds for small mercies that the two young adults in the room couldn't smell this sort of thing. Peter had shared so much out of vulnerability. The conversation stopped as soon as he opened the door.

It didn't bother him. The wolfsbane was wearing off. The wounds had mostly been healing. The scents and sounds were slowly returning. Peter wouldn't be locked inside his head yet again. His body was recovering, the water had no fresh blood mixed on it, he was safe. How laughable. He would never be safe on his own.

Peter walked straight to the chair where Stiles had piled up his purchases, wearing a shirt and plaid fleece pants. It wouldn't have been his choice in clothes if he had been the one shopping.

"I suggest that, at the very least, we should go shopping together," he stated in an attempt of sounding like his old self and pretending the sudden silence meant nothing to him. It was a lie; it was a desperate attempt at normalcy but he knew how to play this game. "Not to sound ungrateful, it'd just be a pity to start a new life in Walmart clothes when there is no reason for better clothes. Clothes are, after all, a small pleasure."

"Snobbish already? Really?" Stiles snorted.

"Actually," Lydia interrupted and Stiles knew he had lost. Either he would part ways or he would follow them into a shopping trip.

"None of you are dressing me up."

"What a shame to deny yourself such comforts," the werewolf said and nodded towards the bags.

Stiles ignored Peter’s statement as he got up and found the box with breakfast. He threw it to Peter and moved towards the door.

"I'll air the car before we go to your shopping extravaganza. Clearly, all of you have set your priorities right because clothes are the first thing you demand in a situation like this. Batshit crazy but dressed to kill, am I right?"

Peter offered him a smirk and Stiles closed the door before any of them could say anything else.

Stiles kept watching the road for a moment. He felt nothing. No emotions he could recognize other than frustration and anger. The pain-the loss-the soul piercing sadness of having put his father in danger. The guilt felt like static in his brain.

No cars were coming from or going to Beacon Hills. No cars, ambulances, fire trucks, anything. It was as if it didn't exist anymore. As if it didn't matter. Beacon Hills burned down and disappeared with Parrish. Everyone else they knew or cared for were dead. Two of them just escaped a mental hospital-supernatural prison. No cars, no emergency responders, not a single soul outside Beacon Hills seemed to know about this as if they had stepped out of the Twilight Zone and Beacon Hills was no more.

He turned to look at the room as he heard the soft click of the door. Lydia made her way to him and just stood there, not saying a word for a long time. The silence between them was comfortable.

“Stiles,” Lydia called and he cocked his head, turning to face the banshee.

She put a hand on his cheek and kissed him.

It was confusing, unexpected, to have Lydia kiss him. There was no doubt, no hesitation in the kiss and yet, it felt like the action itself was meant as a question.

Her hands held his face in a gentle manner, a similar way to when Lydia had done this to anchor him away from his panic. There was no emotion behind her lips. There was no emotion in her hands touching his cheeks. There was no emotion in the way he kissed her back. The kiss was muted.

Lydia broke the kiss but didn't step back, didn't open her eyes.

"Are you still in love with me?" she asked quietly.

Stiles considered the question carefully.

"I don't think so," it was an uncomfortable confession. He could be, he could see himself falling for her, he had thought of it for so long. "I don't know, Lydia. I have no idea what I'm feeling right now."

It was a lie but it was the most honest answer he could offer her. Stiles closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Lydia's. Did she need him to be?

"A fresh start then," Lydia said and gave him a peck on the lips before stepping back.

Stiles considered asking what this was all about, if she was in love with him, if he wanted to be in love with her. He didn't ask. It was obvious Lydia hadn't planned a love confession out of this. In all honesty, Stiles was glad.

"I'm not opposed to friendly kisses," he winked, flashing her a grin that was only a shadow of his spontaneity.

Lydia made a point of looking him over, considering. "I will think about it," she declared and walked back to the room to check on Peter. Stiles was left wondering what she was playing at, why she was playing him, what did this mean, but they were back before his paranoia could take him further down the rabbit role. It was more likely about control but was it about controlling him or getting ahold of herself? He gave them both a look full of suspicion before getting inside the car.

Lydia made a sound of disapproval.

"What," he frowned at her.

Peter looked amused.

"You haven't slept yet. Get on the backseat for a nap."

"Ha ha. Very funny," he said, drumming his thumbs on the wheel. Lydia could glare all she wanted and it wouldn't make Stiles any more tempted to nap in the backseat like a child. She rolled her eyes.

“I'll give back the key,” she informed them before fixing her eyes on Peter. Stiles closed his eyes; he wasn't tired. “Convince him to move.”

Peter hummed and waited a few seconds before opening the door. Stiles opened his eyes as Peter got in the passenger’s seat. It surprised Stiles to have the werewolf ignoring Lydia's orders. That confidence was disconcerting in this situation.

“I will pay you back,” Peter offered and that, in Stiles opinion, was only fair. He knew how much money the guy had. Would have? He frowned. Would Peter get Derek's money? “I will pay you extra to move to the backseat.”

Lydia knocked on the window, arching her eyebrows at Stiles and clearly waiting for him to get out of the driver's seat.

"Are you Derek's heir?" he bluntly asked Peter. Some of the tension seemed to vanish from Lydia.

Peter took some time considering it, inspecting his own claws. He didn't have enough control over his body yet to put them away as he wished.

"I would expect the money to go to Cora," he kept staring at his claws until they slowly seemed to go back to their human form. "Unless something happened while I was…"

Stiles shook his head; Cora hadn't come back.

"Have you heard from her?" Peter asked after some time.

Lydia opened the door, patience obviously gone. “Out,” she demanded of Stiles and he sighed, choosing to climb to the backseat through the space between the front seats instead. Lydia would drive; Stiles would be uncomfortable and pretend to try to nap. He figured he probably brought memories she would rather keep locked away.

"She was with a pack. In," Peter said softly. It was obvious his memory was failing him. "Uruguay, I believe."

That seemed to attract Lydia's attention. When was the last time they heard anything about Cora? Maybe Peter wanted to visit her. Maybe he needed to be sure she was safe. Maybe he needed a pack. It sounded comfortable to not have to worry, to have someone else ensuring your safety. Maybe he would disappear to South America and be some strange alpha’s lapdog. It sounded uncomfortable to blindly trust someone like that, to risk being let down every step of the way. Stiles' attention went back to his own hands. He wasn't meant to be a werewolf.

Stiles stretched his hands in front of himself, reaching for the ceiling of the car. He watched Peter on the passenger's seat. The werewolf seemed content with being bossed around by Lydia.

Maybe he needed a hug.

Stiles gave Peter an odd look. "We should drive down to Sacramento," the werewolf said, changing the topic of the conversation.

Lydia turned to face him. Stiles wondered if she trusted Peter that much or if she was counting on luck.

"I have no money and no cards on me."

“Peter offered to pay. Just drive us there and I bet he has another safe, an old guy like him. Easy peasey.” Lydia turned on the music and Peter visibly winced; his senses were coming back but he had no control over them yet.

In all honesty, Peter was relieved they hadn't kicked him out. The idea of being alone right now was terrifying. How much time had he lost? How strong was he now? How long until he went mad or got hunted or randomly attacked? How long until the next fire?

Lydia didn't want to be alone. She wasn't sure if Stiles had plans to move on his own or if Peter would betray them and run but the idea of being left on her own to grieve people she knew would die for months now seemed terrifying.

Stiles didn't care if he was alone. None of them could figure what was happening to him. None of them would save him inside his head. Except they had. Lydia and Scott had brought Peter along and they saved him once. Lydia and Scott had saved him once with Peter's knowledge.

Stiles could feel himself settling. It was progress. He didn't care if the world went out in flames but, just by having them there, it felt like he was less likely to be the one to set it on fire.

It took almost an hour before other cars started to pass them and Peter realized no one else was coming from Beacon Hills. There was no help on the way. There were no other survivors running for the metaphorical hills. He wondered why Lydia and himself hadn’t pushed, hadn’t made their way back into the city. They were leaving. There was nothing for them in those ruins and none of them seemed whole enough to waltz into a post-calamity scenario to poke for answers. They were leaving to never return and it felt like they were the last ones to make it out alive.

“What happened in Beacon Hills?” Peter whispered, still watching the road.

“Have you heard of the Dread Doctors?” Lydia asked after a beat. Peter had, and at the same time he hadn’t. It was an urban legend, nothing to be taken seriously. He looked at the woman driving.

Lydia kept her eyes on the road.

“They showed up and didn’t leave anything behind. Twilight Zone shit,” Stiles added from the backseat. “We may as well be dead now. Ghosts. Boo.”

Lydia tensed up, holding on the wheel as if it would keep her grounded. Peter turned away from the window, sniffing the air as anxiety took over the car. He reached out and let his fingers hover over her wrist, not quite touching. It wasn’t hesitation as much as courtesy, respect even, that keep Peter from touching her. He had done enough damage.

“Take the next exit,” he commented. “I have some documents, some emergency things stored in,” Peter paused and shrugged after a moment, deemed the missing piece in this memory irrelevant. “Some place on Roseville road.”

“No clothes, I suppose?” Stiles asked.

“Now why would I deprive myself of the pleasure of shopping with you?”

The silence was back except for the radio. The music was oddly soothing. It didn’t take too long to find the right place despite the fact they took the wrong street two times after leaving the highway. Lydia was tempted to call the place obnoxious with its orange doors but mostly it was frustration over the mistakes made.

It was agreed Stiles would have get what Peter needed and it took a few minutes of explaining exactly where Peter kept his safety documents and cards. Peter couldn’t deal with those people on his own as it was, with no proper control over his shift.

“This is ridiculous,” she got out of the car while they waited for Stiles. He kept his side of the car opened, watching Lydia pace. He wondered what was truly bothering her. He wondered if Lydia, too, felt the pull of Beacon Hills; an urge to turn around; a calling he didn’t want to pay attention to.

The waiting kept stretching and Peter attempted to focus on his breathing. They just had to wait for Stiles to return, that as all. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. He was considering getting out of the car and walking around when Lydia made her way to the car, stopped by the open door, leaned down and kissed him.

It was startling, almost terrifying, to have Lydia kiss him.

There was no hesitation and it caught Peter by surprise. She kept a hand on his shoulder and another on the car door, a clear warning he should stay where he was. Sitting there, with Lydia towering over him, kissing him with no emotion, Peter recognized the kiss as an offer. For what, he wasn't so sure.

Lydia broke the kiss and straightened her back, looking down at him.

"This isn't forgiveness."

Peter nodded; it didn’t feel like forgiveness.

"I'm not willing to allow anyone else to control this for me. You can come along, stay around, I don’t care. You try to take over," she paused to take a deep breath but they both understood it. “Just know you’ll regret it.”

An offer, a warning. Peter nodded again, an agreement.

Stiles came back a few minutes later, shook a box in front of Lydia’s face and got in the car, claiming the passenger seat this turn. No one complained. They weren't far away from Sacramento.

Hours later, Lydia finally found a store she deemed worthy of going in. Peter made an approving noise and Stiles couldn't believe they were bonding over being fashion snobs. They parked and got out of the car, stretching and trying to act as normal as they could possibly pass for. Lydia marched in the direction of the store as if not only she wasn't dressed in pyjamas but as if she owned the place. It made Stiles grateful for this particular skill she had and that he had never quite appreciated in high school.

Peter kept close to Lydia. He knew the banshee wasn't doing him a favour, she likely wanted something for allowing him to stay. Didn't they all? Peter could deal with it. He could pay in money, clothes, food, knowledge. He was used to paying.

Lydia hummed. "I haven't been to the beach in a long time," she commented, glancing at the swimwear in the window of the store next to the one she chose. She stopped by the window to inspect a two pieces she had no use for at the moment before continuing on her way.

"I haven't been to the beach. Period," Stiles shrugged.

"Don't you have a surf board or something?" Lydia frowned at him.

Stiles cocked his head, watching her with a stillness that came naturally to him now. He didn't expect Lydia to remember it. He didn't want to explain the board he hadn't got to use. He didn't want to share the plans his family had made long ago, before his mother stopped recognizing them. Before she died.

"Cora sent me a picture," Peter broke the silence. A long time ago went unsaid.

Peter was clinging to the only bond, the only family, he still had. Cora. Cora who probably thought him dead. Such a long time with not even a text. No replies, no news. Had she talked to Derek? Did she know? Did she feel it when he died? Why would he come back? Peter sighed. Derek had too much heart to ignore it and now he was dead. They all were. A whole city of dead people because of things too big for them. Because of too much heart and too much pain and a war they could only lose. A war too old for any of them to be fully aware and capable of recognizing it for what it was.

"I would like to go meet Cora again," Peter confessed softly. There was no point in lying about this. Not anymore.

There was a moment of silence before Lydia shoved a pile of clothes into Peter’s arms.

"I don't think a closed space with strangers is your best option right now. Did you miss all the signs of anxiety a short car trip was already causing?"

Stiles smirked, inspecting a Star Wars shirt. Was she refusing to let Peter go or only vetoing he took a flight to meet his niece out of concern for those poor strangers?

"I hear road trip," Stiles said and added the shirt to the pile. “A really long one.” As Lydia made disapproving sounds at clothes, Stiles wondered what they were actually doing here. “Full of pauses and sight-seeing, very old people.”

Stiles discreetly counted his fingers. Not a dream. Was this how Peter and Lydia coped with the enormity of this loss? They…shopped their feelings away? Stiles laughed softly and just shook his head when the sound attracted Peter's attention. It was ridiculous and so obviously desperate.

“Oh well, I haven’t been to the beach in a long time,” Lydia commented with a shrug. “It wouldn't be a terrible idea.”

Stiles nodded, faking a seriousness that bordered on ridiculous in this situation. “A beachy getaway to South America.”

It was ridiculous. Couldn’t they see? Stiles could feel himself getting frustrated with Lydia’s denial. He could feel himself frustrated with Peter’s acceptance. None of this was normal. Stiles felt trapped, he felt desperate. He would find someone else, someone normal, someone…he would…be alone. He couldn’t. He couldn’t stay and he couldn’t go. He needed to get away. This didn’t feel real. This was a dream. He counted his fingers, breathing out slowly. No, he needed to get away.

Stiles stormed out of the store, fully intending to leave them behind. He would drive away. He got into the car but couldn’t bring himself to actually leave. No one else would understand. How could he find anyone to bring him down from the ceiling when they wouldn’t get it.

Stiles hit the wheel with his open palm, screaming in frustration.

Peter knocked on the window.

“I’m not apologizing,” he said, knowing full well werewolf hearing should allow the other to hear it clearly. Peter made his way to the other side and, despite having the time to lock the car, Stiles let him open the other door and slid into the passenger’s seat.

"Stiles,” the werewolf said softly but all he got in response was a glare. “Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles wanted him to shut up; he didn’t need an attempt at comfort. He wanted Peter gone but he wanted Peter to stay.

He kissed Peter. It may as well have been an attempt to head-butt him, a clumsy movement that seemed designed to happened as it did. A violent kiss, a messy action.

There was no hesitation but it was moved by utter hopelessness.

Peter broke the kiss, wanting to search for an explanation in Stiles' eyes if none would be voiced. Stiles kept his eyes shut, kept his lips parted. It was frustration, it was an attempt to keep Peter from looking into his feelings. It was the fear of almost letting go.

Peter kissed Stiles.

Barely a touch of their lips.

Barely any pressure.

Barely even kiss.

“Gentlemen, the both of you.”

Lydia knocked on the window before opening the door and sliding into the backseat with the bags they left behind at the store. She didn't say a word and she didn't even seem to care. Maybe she didn't.

Stiles took a deep breath. Their kisses felt binding. A promise to not walk away on their own, a request to not be left behind, a plea, a truce, an understanding.

They had lost. There was no home to go back to, there was no one waiting for them. There was no one to care if they died, no one to miss them now. It was perfect to get rid of each other, perfect to disappear in the world, to move away and pretend none of this had ever happened.

But…

Being alone was terrifying. Peter needed a pack. Lydia needed someonesomethinganything to ground her into reality. Stiles needed someone to keep him from the dark path ahead.

It wasn't love but it wasn't hate either and, for now, it was enough.

 

 

 _“I'm lonely. And I'm lonely in some horribly deep way and for a flash of an instant, I can see just how lonely, and how deep this feeling runs. And it scares the shit out of me to be this lonely because it seems catastrophic.”  
― _ Augusten Burroughs, _Dry_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bigby wolf and pyro (and thank you ninna for suggesting it) are names of comicbook characters.
> 
> it was betaed by CatyCrisis (ChelseasDeadSmile) and i'm really grateful for it (thank you!!). also, thank you, time_lady_of_unsinkable_ships and koko for reviewing it with me and ethereality for holding my hand through it. you're all sweeties.
> 
>  
> 
> i hope you'll follow the story into the next installment and thanks for reading this part!!


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